Чарли Андерс - Best Lesbian Erotica 2010

But instead of following through with my implied promise, I reach up and push her off, pinning her wrists momentarily before abandoning her to strip off my jeans. I reach for the straps of my harness, and the leather creaks hello to James as he rises to attention.

Grabbing the lube, I coat him in it, stroking the rigid shaft, rolling my palm over the head keeping eye contact with her the whole time. Then I move up on her torso and envelop myself in her breasts. I rock between them, fucking them gently and enjoying the friction of her skin against my cunt. She places her hands over mine and presses her breasts together more firmly, milking my cock with them before lifting her head to capture the tip with her mouth. I take one hand and hold the back of her head, and we move together, sucking and pumping and gyrating to the same pulse.

Once my clit is hard from the mutual motion, I smile at her.

“You’ve been so good,” I say, “and I’m going to reward you. But first, we have some unfinished business. You’re always telling me that if you’re going to come on my cock, you have to start on top… so that’s just what we’re going to do.”

I recline on the bed, stroking James absently, and watching as she pulls off the now-soaked black panties, the only barrier between my tongue and her swollen clit. My hips twitch in anticipation. Patience. Patience…

A smile plays on her lips, and she moves to straddle my hips, confident that she knows where this is going.

“Not so fast,” I murmur. “Bring your beautiful cunt over here and let me taste you. Just remember… you’re not allowed to come unless it’s on my cock.”

She readjusts and pauses, hovering above me. Then, slowly, she lowers her pussy toward my mouth, taking her time and drawing it out with an aching precision. Her lips settle on mine and for the first time this evening I experience the slickness of her sex. I stroke it with my tongue, reintroducing myself to her and a place I love so well. Her musk overwhelms me and I lap up her juices greedily, burying my face in her, pushing into her cunt as deeply as I can. In response she rocks against me, fucking my tongue and grinding her clit into me. I travel up to it and take her as fully as I can into my mouth. I purse my lips and pull her clit toward me, pulsing on the shaft while the tip of my tongue flits in figure eights and then broad strokes over her head. When she braces herself against the wall I start in earnest, rolling my tongue from blade to tip in undulating waves over her engorged sex and rocking my chin into the flesh of her cunt, which gives slightly, engulfing me as she matches my movements with thrusts of her own.

Soon her panting is fast and heavy, and I can feel the weight of her pressing down on my chest as she urges her body toward climax. It’s so familiar to me, and yet always a discovery, building for that moment when she comes, spasms and bucks against me. But tonight that’s not the plan. She’s begging me not to stop, to let her come, and instead I remove my mouth from her cunt as best I can.

“This is not how you’re going to come,” I say. “Move.”

“I can’t,” she gasps out. But I insist.

“Yes, you can. I want you to ride my cock. I want you to come all over me.”

She moves her cunt away from me, her manner betraying a palpable reluctance to postpone her orgasm. She bends to kiss me, to taste herself on my lips, and rubs her dripping sex along the shaft of my cock to wet it. She slowly impales herself upon me, groaning as she does so, giving her body time to adjust to my length and girth. And then she begins to gyrate.

She’s ridden me before, but this is a completely new experience. The desire is raw and needy, and she stares down at me from her perch, enjoying the blatant play of emotions dancing across my face. Below the harness, my clit is hard and it takes all my self-control not to thrust upward into her in response to her movement. She grabs my hand and places my thumb over her clit, and as I describe circles on it, the muscles in her thighs tense and I know she’s going to come. The movement is hard and fast now and the moans from her throat are deep and guttural. When she climaxes, it’s harder than I’ve ever seen her come. Her whole body, glistening with sweat, shakes, shudders and bucks against me. I swear I can actually feel the contractions through the shaft of my cock. She throws her head back and lets the tremors sweep her away. My own cunt contracts in response and I tremble, my body unsure how to respond to the intensity of her orgasm. I don’t want to come out of her, could almost come watching her; want to kiss her, hold her, cry, thrust, keep her right where she is and melt into her all at once. Instead, I can say only, “I love you.” And she smiles at me with all the warmth in the world and tells me that she loves me too.

We stay there for a moment, breathing together and taking it all in. When she dismounts, my body mourns the loss of her cunt wrapped around me. She rolls to the side and lays her hand on my chest, pressing her lips to mine and, in the guise of a kiss, slowly and deliberately sucking her come off my lips. Then she smiles at me, her blue eyes wide and mischievous, and says, “I think you should go get your camera….”

The dregs of dinner swim in soupy ponds and unidentifiable cold swells. Thanksgiving, and the wine runs out. A scandal. Remnants of a larger party, we sit listless around the Provençal farmhouse table in Ignatha’s two-bedroom Charlton Street high-rise. Simone’s a latecomer with an aloof air, brashly hiding all of her twenty-one years. A voluptuous, tall blonde with a vintage look—’50’s French bombshell—attired in nouvelle vogue . Simone, unlike all the others present, hates her youth.

All but me. The primitive rover with one eye permanently dilated. The interloper from Joyce’s Catholic and irredeemably Irish male dreamscape violating this feminine, pagan world of goddesses and demigoddesses, amazons and nymphs, mothers and daughters, sisters, cousines, aunties and nieces, and banshees, maybe the Bacchae.

I sit on the muted paisley upholstered wing chair as they regroup on the chocolate leather couch. I watch. Idle conversation. A pause. Then a gesture. Simone reaches out and tousles the hair of Arable, the tall elegant Portuguese; Arable turns to Nadya, supine on the soft leather; she caresses shoulders, arms, bellies, breasts but lingeringly, the better to tease. Throat. Ah, is there a tenderer place on a feminine body than the throat? Ignatha, tiny, doll-like and greedy, strokes them. All over. Simone turns to me with a glare of reproach. I look down and see I have my cell phone in my hand. I’m clicking, praying fervently for extra memory.

Do you want to be in the photo ? she asks.

Yes ! I sing.

Nadya moves nearly four inches to her right on the couch. My large untoned hips shouldn’t really fit in there. I bolt and wedge myself into the space. Instantly arms surround my neck and shoulders; fingertips caress my nipples like kisses; hands stroke my arm, my thighs. I reach beyond Nadya and stroke her hair. Simone turns to me, feline, moving up to meet my downward stroke. With the other hand, I hold the cell out at an extreme right angle and snap away. Simone, the sexual arsonist, languishes in the center of the puddle. She rises and turns to me.

I have to show you something in the bedroom. Give me five minutes . Then she pulls me into the center of the pile. The others continue, indifferent to substitution. Caressing, fondling, and kissing every exposed inch of skin. She disappears from the living room.

I can’t imagine anything more delicious than what I feel at this moment, in the middle of a harem of beautiful women all intent on the same purpose. But I wait five minutes as instructed and follow her. I rise. The breasts, calves, fingers and mouths recede.